Second Choice
by sailorgreywolf
Summary: This is an extension of my story "Legacy." Spain has learned of the defection of one of his most valuable commanders. The reality of Mexico's war for independence dawns upon him and he is forced to face reality. Romano seeks to comfort him in his moment of profound doubt. SpaMex, Spamano


Romano walked into the house expecting to find everything in order, if not rushed by the preparations of war. But, there was a strange eerie silence as he walked in. One sound was conspicuously missing. Spain should be giving orders in his usual confident way. Without his voice filling space, the halls seemed very empty. Romano felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the feeling washed over him that something was very wrong. He rushed his steps as he made his way to Spain's room, throwing away all rules of propriety.

He reached the door and found it shut firmly. Paying no mind to what decorum would dictate, he raised his fist to the door and pounded on the wood, yelling, "What are you doing in there?"

He got no response, which sent a chill over his skin. Surely the Spaniard wanted to admonish him. He had been doing so far more often since most of his American colonies had rebelled. But, once the knock faded, there wasn't even any sound of movement on the other side of the door. Perplexed, Romano slammed his hand against the door again, "Bastard! Answer me!" He used the word he knew Spain would respond to. Romano didn't care if he was about to get scolded, so long as he knew that there was nothing wrong.

But, the silence continued and the unnerving feeling did not abate. He slammed his hand against the wood one more time, "Antonio!" But, in the silence, he did not raise his hand again. He let it fall open against the wood. Spain was not here. For the first time since he had come back to this country to crush the rebellion, Spain was not in his room pouring over his plans.

Romano had seen the man who had controlled him for years descend into obsession, valuing nothing but reclaiming Mexico. The thought of the man caused bile to rise in Romano's throat. Mexico, the smirking whore with the impeccable bloodlines, had managed to lay claim to Spain's heart when he had done little to deserve it. Now he showed himself to be duplicitous to the end. And yet, Spain claimed that Mexico had been deceived by the men around him, that he was still loyal at heart. Romano found it impossible to understand how delusion could endure, especially not for Mexico. The man had never been loyal, except in his hollow promises.

There was the sound of slow steps behind him, as though somebody was slowly approaching. He turned, not expecting to see Spain. There was a servant standing behind him, looking at him with a strange desperation. Romano felt the words rise in his throat. He wanted to shout, to demand to know what had happened to Spain. But, before he could spit out his demand, the other said, "If you're looking for the general, he got a letter very early this morning and went to chapel. He has not been back all day."

This news made the hairs on the back of the Italian's neck stand up again. It was not usual for Spain to put his faith above everything else, even though he was pious. This seemed to be the servant's assessment of the situation as well because he continued, "You should go and check on him. He should not have been gone this long." Romano couldn't help but feel unsettled at this uncharacteristic behavior. He didn't doubt that he should go find the Spaniard as quickly as possible. Whatever the man was doing now, it did not matter. He was needed here and now. Without another word to the mortal, he started walking again, this time in the opposite direction.

He knew where the lavish church was in this gaudy city, and it was not far. He would not even have to mount a horse again to get there. He walked with quick determination, fighting down a rising sense of panic. He told himself that this meant nothing, perhaps the Spaniard was just reminded of something he needed to atone for and had spent the day doing so. It didn't seem likely, and Romano could hear the way that his footsteps sped up as the panic set in. He reached the door of the church and threw it open with no thought as to what he might be interrupting.

Spain was not hard to find. He was kneeling in front of the altar. As Romano stepped closer, he could hear Antonio's voice, hoarse, speaking low and feverishly in Latin. The Spaniard had his hands clasped together so tightly that the color had gone out of his knuckles, but there was a crumpled piece of parchment in front of him. Romano stepped even closer, walking just to the right of the kneeling man. He got an even better view of Spain's face. His cheeks were red and his lips were chapped as they continued to form the syllables of the prayers. His eyes were clamped shut, so he did not notice his visitor.

Romano had been raised by Spain to be Catholic, but he had never seen the other this deeply engrossed in prayer. He wondered if it would be possible to step around Spain and retrieve the crumpled letter to read what it said. Otherwise he would have no idea what had driven the man to such piety. But, that idea was easy to crush as soon as it arose. Spain would notice and it would be taken badly, no doubt. That would result in more scolding and Romano had had enough of them.

Instead, he took a different gamble and said, "Antonio." He spoke the name with some trepidation, He could not bring the usual insult to his lips, not now. Spain's eyes shot open and it was immediately clear that his eyes were red, as though he had been weeping. He turned his gaze pointedly on Romano, who found himself struck speechless for a moment.

As he tried to think of words to ask what was wrong, the Spaniard got angrily to his feet and snatched up the letter that was laying in front of him. Then he turned directly towards Romano again and snarled, "I said I was not to be interrupted. But, I shouldn't be surprised that you would ignore me." He spoke with an anger that didn't seem entirely sincere. His voice was strained from overuse, and it cracked from the strain.

Without waiting for Romano's response, Spain started to walk away. But, he glanced down at the letter and all the color and emotion drained out of his face. Romano found words that would not seem like commands, even if he wanted to demand this fool go back to the house, "Are you aware of how long you've been here?"  
Spain replied with a feverish wave of his hand, "A couple hours. What of it?" He took another step, but it did not have direction.  
Romano responded, "You've been here all day!" He couldn't hold back his habitual scorn this time, "Have you eaten anything, bastard?"

The concern was genuine. Romano could see the other's hands shaking, even as the man crumpled the letter into a ball for what was undoubtably not the first time that day. The creases in the parchment were not new, There was a flash of agony across Spain's eyes and he turned back towards the altar, disinterested in this conversation. He replied only with, "Oh."

He made no effort to answer the question or admonish the insult. This, more than anything, sent a feeling of pure dread through the Italian's body. In the years he had known Spain, the man had never so passively accepted reference to his own bastardy. It was worse than the broken hunch of his shoulders or the red tint to his eyes. Romano decided that he needed to step in and stop this. He did not know what had happened, but he did not care. He could not bring himself to continue to watch.

He took a few steps and cut between Spain and the altar. He growled, "Come back. Eat something." At the moment, Spain's status as empire was irrelevant. Romano would command him for now. The Italian drew himself up to his whole height and met Spain's green eyes. He could feel the blood of Rome in his veins in a way that it rarely did. Though he knew himself to be a legitimate heir to his grandfather, Spain, the Moorish bastard, had always been more the empire than Romano, though Rome was among not his land.

The Italian had done nothing to object, though he wanted to with every fiber of his being, to Spain's favor going first to his brother then to Mexico. It was that favor, Romano realized, that he truly craved, above his own dignity. He had realized that he hated Mexico for more than the man's grasping and overreaching. It was strange that a savage saved by Spain's grace should so wantonly saunter around the court. With his false smiles and transparent flirtations, Mexico had stolen the attention that Romano wanted desperately.

Now, he was staring at Spain as the man breaking. Romano did not have to guess at the reason for it; without even reading the letter, he knew that it had something to do with Mexico. Since he had rebelled, Spain had not been the same man. The easy care and comfort he had had as an empire had evaporated and been replaced with a stony focus on regaining his rebelling colonies. None had cut as deep as Mexico's betrayal. When he had received news of Hidalgo's revolt, Spain had changed, and focused with a single minded precision on retaining Mexico.

Romano had never been surprised by the turn of events. A whore who sold his body for titles and favors would not remain when Spain had nothing left to give. It was telling that there had been no sign of rebellion when Spain had prospered. Mexico had no moral reason to rebel, if not for his own greed. He saw greater profit in independence and he was willing to hurt Spain to do it.

Spain fixed his gaze again on Romano, attempting to appear authoritative. But, the Italian could see the tears welling at the corners of Spain's eyes. He could not believe the authority when Spain said, "I have unfinished business here. I will eat when I am ready." He attempted to push past the Italian, but there was so little force in it that Romano was not moved. But, when Spain's hands touched him, Romano could feel them trembling.

Disregarding the consequences, he seized Spain by both shoulders. The affront was clear in the way Spain grimaced as though the touch hurt him. The Italian said, "I'm not leaving unless you come with me."  
It was slightly childish, but the threat was worth making. The Spaniard let out a long groan before his shoulders slumped and he said, "You are such a child. But, if it will sway you I will return." The statement was accentuated by the way Spain's tongue ran over his dry lips.  
Romano counted it as a victory and said, "Good. You need rest, bast-Antonio."

He bit his tongue as the familiar insult threatened to escape. Spain only nodded and looked down at his own fist balled around the letter, which he then put directly over his heart and nodded again. Romano walked toward the door, looking behind him periodically to make sure Spain was keeping his promise. With tacit acquiescence, Spain followed.

But, before he stepped out of the door, he turned back towards the altar and said to himself, "Mea culpa." Then he crossed himself. Romano was again puzzled. What could possibly have gone so wrong that Spain had sought a day of confession? But, now was not the time to ask. He held his tongue again as he watched Spain finally walk away.

Back at the house, Romano sat down at a mostly empty banquet table across from the Spaniard. He had already ordered that food be brought, and he had been surprised when he had actually been obeyed. One of the household servants approached the table and said, "Will you be requiring anything else."  
Spain looked up from the spot on the table he had been fixedly contemplating and said, "Yes, a bottle of wine."

It was not the best choice for sustenance, but Romano had no reason to complain. He doubted he could override Spain's command anyway. The servant nodded, bowed, and left. Then, Spain turned his eyes to his surroundings for one of the first times. His eyes met Romano's and the Italian felt a strange tenderness. He had not been alone with Spain like this for a very long time. It had always been Mexico who had the private meals with Spain and the chance to bend his ear. Romano was sitting in the chair usually reserved for Spain's darling.

The same thought seemed to occur to Spain because he said, "Did you have to sit there?" His firmness only thinly hid the sorrow. His voice was quiet, having finally succumbed to the strain of the day. Romano wished he did not understand the meaning so well. Spain would give anything to have Mexico sitting across from him right now.  
He responded with less affront than usual, "There is not another place to sit."  
Spain countered, apparently without thought, "But that's Ale's-"

He stopped himself as tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. His hand went to his mouth as he stifled any further words. Before Romano could say anything, the servant returned with a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses. He was followed with many others with steaming pieces of sausage and fish, along with a plate of bread and a plate laden with thin pieces of ham. It was far more food than Romano had expected, but then it occurred to him that the kitchen had cooked for two. Spain looked morosely at the food, then seized the bottle of wine and filled one of the cups to the brim. Without any explanation, he put the glass to his lips. In a few minutes, half of the liquid disappeared. Once the last drop was gone, he put the glass back down. Then, without pausing to explain himself, he grabbed the bottle and poured another glass.

Romano reached across the table and grabbed the glass before Spain could pick it up. The liquid spilled over onto the table, but that was not important. Romano said, a growl restrained in his throat, "You need food. If you drink like that you'll be sick."  
Spain bared his teeth and said, "There is no point."

He attempted to jerk the wine out of Romano's hand, causing more of the red liquid on the table. The Italian had no inclination to release his hold on the glass. He leaned in and met Spain's eyes, "I will not give it up until you tell me what is wrong. You are fighting a war; you need your strength." The Spaniard leaned back, letting his hand fall off the wine.

He let out a low sigh before laying his other hand on the table and said, "The war is over, and Alejandro is lost to me."  
As he spoke, his voice broke again. He let out a dry sob before continuing, "Iturbide found him and betrayed me. Now Ale has the numbers to take the capital without a battle. I should have seen it coming."

Romano found himself speechless. He had not thought Spain's defeat possible with the power he possessed. It was unnerving how Mexico could turn his sinister charm easily against men in positions of power. First he had captivated Spain, and now he handily changed the loyalty of a mortal. He was like a siren, luring men away from the proper course to be dashed against the rocks. It made sense now: The letter had been the report of Iturbide's defection. It may have even been in Mexico's hand. It would not be beneath the man to write himself to inform Spain of his triumph. It was this news, the loss of practically his entire army, that had finally broken Spain's resolve.

Without a response from the Italian, Spain continued with a hysterical edge in his voice, "Everything I have fought for is lost." He covered his face with one hand and let out a dry sob. Romano could tell the single glass of wine was going to his head because his words began to slur and feelings he would never share with Romano were flowing freely. Spain's shoulders shook as he said, taking deep painful breathes between words, "I don't care about his fortune. I cannot stand the thought that I will never hold him in my arms again. I won't ever be able to stroke his hair or dry his tears. I already miss being able to hold him and kiss him."

He shook his head violently, and in a single sweeping motion, took the glass of wine from the table and brought it to his lips. Romano did not realize until Spain had the glass to his lips that his hand had slipped off of it. His shock at the news that Mexico had practically won his independence had loosened his grip on the wine glass, and Spain had not failed to notice. Before he could do anything, the glass was empty again. In an act of desperation he grabbed the wine and put it outside of the other's reach.

The movement caught Spain's eye and pulled him out of his self pity. He waved his hand angrily, "But why would you care? You have made it abundantly clear that you think I'm a usurper because my Roman blood isn't as pure as yours." Romano tried to find the words to express the profound care he felt without humbling himself. But, as the words formed on his tongue, Spain snapped, "Don't speak! I do not want to hear it. You do not care what I feel."

Rage gripping him, Spain stood. Though he meant to be imposing, the alcohol mixed with the day of fasting made him stagger and grip the edge of the table. Romano responded in kind, rising to his feet with a retort already on his sharp tongue. He met Spain's eyes unflinching, feeling his affection for Spain bolstering him. He said, "I will speak because you need to hear it. I am here and he's not. I do care."

Spain recoiled, apparently shocked that any of his possessions would speak back to him like that. Only Mexico had ever lashed out at him, and the episodes had only made him fonder. Romano was not willing to wait to see which reaction he was going to get. He continued, "And I am not about to let you poison yourself for Mexico!"

With a swipe of his hand, Romano caught the wine glass and knocked it to the floor, where it shattered. Spain opened his mouth as though he was going to reprimand Romano, but no sound came out. Struck dumb, the Spaniard slowly sat back down, grief and alcohol exhausting him.

Romano did not do the same. He walked around the end of the table and stood right next to Spain. The other's green eyes traced up his body before looking directly at him. Making sure that Spain was watching him, Romano sank to one knee. Then, only once he was at Spain's eye level did he speak again, "Here, I'm not siting in his seat. I am not taking his place, and you are not giving up yet. So you lost Iturbide? You have other commanders."  
Spain looked away from the Italian, "And if I lose him?"

Romano felt his heart thud as the other's eyes met his own again. There was a simple answer, and he felt bold enough to say it. He took a breath before saying, "Then there will be others. There will be others to embrace and comfort." He dare not offer himself as an option, though the thought sent a flash of heat over his skin. Romano was not in enough denial to think that Spain would accept. But, he felt a swell of emotion and voiced it, "There are others who love you, really love you. Others who do not have to lie to you."

Emboldened by the fact that Spain had not yet responded, Romano reached up and wiped away one of the trails of moisture down the other's face. Before he could pull back his arm, Spain seized him by both shoulders. Before he could react, Spain's lips were against his and he was blushing scarlet. Romano could feel his heart beating like a caged bird. He willingly parted his lips to allow Spain to do whatever would comfort him.

But, Spain ignored his invitation and pulled away. To Romano's dismay, the Spaniard was shaking his head. The Spaniard said, holding the Italian at a distance, "It isn't the same." He took a deep breath and pushed the other further away. He appeared to be bracing himself before he said, "I'm confused and lonely. You should leave."

Romano said, trying to change the other's mind before the slight glimmer of hope vanished, "But, Antonio-"  
Spain cut him off, "You have done enough tonight. Now, leave me alone."

The Italian growled and ripped himself away from Spain's grasp. He was not going to listen to the man he craved talk about Mexico. He said, familiar anger returning, "Fine! Self destruct if that's what you want. I'm sure if will solve all your problems." He turned and stormed towards the door.

But, he was stopped by Spain's voice, "Lovino!" Romano turned back. Spain was looking at him with unexpected sincerity. He spoke again, "Thank you." Every spiteful word that Romano had wanted to say vanished. He smiled and blushed before stepping out the door, leaving Spain alone with his meal and his thoughts.


End file.
